These are the fights of Love and Joy and Men
With Fate and d**h and the illicit Beast,
For guerdons, of which Glory is the least
And Honour not the highest. The old reign
Of Night shall topple, the old Wrongs be slain:
Fitting it is that you go to the Feast
While ange suns kindle the young-eyed east
And bring the breath of Eden back again.
Oh soldiers' hour! . . . For now the English rose
Flames and is washed with the authentic dew
And through the mist her ancient crimson shows:
I see your shadows on the waking lawn
Like shadows of kings, and all the souls of you
Blazoned and bright and panoplied in the dawn.